


beneath your beautiful

by Umbrella_ella



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, it got lost, smutty smut smut, there was plot somewhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umbrella_ella/pseuds/Umbrella_ella
Summary: "Jean only notices when she’s ironing out one of Lucien’s shirts. The cuffs are unusually crumpled, wrinkles stubborn, even against the steam of her efforts.It happens more than once that day. When he comes home, he sweeps her into his arms, a kiss pressed to her temple, a quick look around, and then a deeper kiss leaving her nearly breathless against the sideboard, and then he’s slipping off his overcoat and vest, left only in his shirt, and she notices."This is pure smut. This pretended to have plot for about three sentences. It was a sham. It's literally just smut.





	beneath your beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> I got through two-thirds of writing this without realizing I'd forgotten to take Jean's shoes and blouse off. 
> 
> Also, I'm not editing 3K words of smut at 11 PM. Any and all mistakes are my own.

Jean only notices when she’s ironing out one of Lucien’s shirts. The cuffs are unusually crumpled, wrinkles stubborn, even against the steam of her efforts.

It happens more than once that day. When he comes home, he sweeps her into his arms, a kiss pressed to her temple, a quick look around, and then a deeper kiss leaving her nearly breathless against the sideboard, and then he’s slipping off his overcoat and vest, left only in his shirt, and she notices.

“Lucien, you’ve forgotten to roll down your sleeves,” Jean remarks, slipping her forefinger beneath the folded cuff of his sleeve, and she presses her palm into the bare skin of his forearms, tanned and lovely from their honeymoon. If she flushes when she thinks of his strong arms boxing her in, pulling her in, lowering himself onto her, if Jean’s core clenches at the mere thought of his corded muscles beneath smooth skin, she doesn’t show it, but for the warmth that creeps up her chest, just as she turns and guides him down the hall.

Lucien’s hands barely leave her, his fingers, strong and sure, pull her hips back to hold her flush against him, even as she busies herself at the kettle, and she slaps him halfheartedly on the shoulder, her fingertips sliding against the cool fabric of his shirt sleeve, and her palms find the heat of his forearms once more, rubbing them absentmindedly as she tilts her head back. Jean knows her husband now, through and through, knows his body, every beat of his heart better than her own, and she can trace the maps of his desire with the nip of her teeth and the scratch of her nails.

The thought catches her nearly aflame, and she reaches out for Lucien, then, turning in his grip.

His arms are tight around her, and her hands press into the unyielding solid warmth of his chest, her breasts pressed to the warmth of his torso, just above his belly, gone soft with the quality of her meals. A delightful thrill of satisfaction overtakes her at the thought, but then his lips are seeking out her own, and her hands are clutching at the back of his neck, pulling him in because this Jean, Jean _Blake_ , is sinful and wanton and it is burning through her, this newfound utter desire, roiling just beneath her skin, threatening to burn the decency out of her. His lips are a brand over her skin, bussing her cheeks, her temple, dipping low to her neck, and returning, finally, blissfully to her own.

Nothing prepares her for the way he dips to her neck once more, deft fingers, fingers that brush against the ivory skin of her collarbone, where it juts out slightly, and tastes her, boldly, with his tongue searching out the smallest flecks of sweat that had beaded there, now salt-dried.

“You taste wonderful, my love,” he rumbles into her, and she can feel the way his fingers tighten against her blouse, the nice one she’d bought from the shops in Paris, especially for that evening’s supper. She recalls that she hadn’t gotten past modelling for him before he’d become quite intent on having her, and here, even far away from the luxuries of Parisian nightlife, she feels a thrill at the way he shifts the periwinkle collar away from her neck, intent upon sating himself.

She won’t deny him, she knows this, but she clicks her tongue at him and pulls away then, her back hitting the countertop as she leans away, needing a moment of relief from the overwhelming emotions that threaten to overtake her. His hands are still, then, his breathing labored, and dear _God_ , she would fall to her knees and drag him into Hell with her if it means he will look at her like that every time.

 _He does,_ a proud, insidious voice reminds her.

His eyes are dark, rings of blue stormy and vivid, and she swears she can see the flash of lust burn through him when his eyes flick down to survey his work. She knows, without looking, can feel the burn of his stubble, the rasp of his teeth, firm and delicious, against her neck even now, even as his gaze sends a tendril of heat licking through her, twining up her insides and sending a furl of warmth straight to her core.

“Lucien,” she murmurs, a breathless sigh, before closing the distance between them, and she lets out a hum against his lips when he breaks the kiss, ragged breath sweet on her mouth.

“Please, please let me kiss you,” and she does, meets his mouth with hers, lets her tongue map out a mouth she will never again be without, and gives in, even he presses forward, his hardness a thrilling reminder of what she does to him, against the soft planes of her stomach. His hands hover sweetly at the buttons of her blouse, and she presses his fingers to the delicate pearls, encouraging him to undress her. Lucien is breathless then, his eyes flickering over her bare torso as he reveals his prize, drinking her in as though he is a man dying of thirst, and she, his oasis. The shirt flutters to the floor in a swathe of blue, and he moves to pick it up, to fold it neatly, perhaps over the chair, but she stops him, her hands clutching desperately at his shoulders.

She’ll never let him go.

They’ve spent so long toeing the line of propriety, keeping to expectations, and now, now she is his and he hers and she’ll never have to ache to run her hands through his hair, or wonder what he would taste like, because she has all of this and so much more, and the thought of all of it, of all he offers to her, makes her pull him in closer, makes her fingers curl and thread through the hairs at the nape of his neck.

Suddenly, this isn’t quite enough, she’s not close enough to burn in all of the right ways, so she fumbles with the buttons of his shirt, her fingers demanding access to a torso that’s not as lean as it once was, but nevertheless, she wants to kiss away the silvery scar of his misadventure in the garage, wants to brush her lips along every scar and bump and bruise, and remind him that he has a _wife_ now, that he should be more careful. His own fingers, warm and clumsy with the heat of their kisses, search out the zip of her skirt, drawing it down, even as his tongue sweeps into her mouth, chasing the flavor of her, even as he brands her with his lips, his tongue, the squeeze of his palms against her sharp hips.

He brushes the skirt aside, and her hands falter at his ministrations, his buttons only half undone. It might come to her later, this notion of being upset when her skirt is wrinkled, but she’s not now, she’s so far from anything but bliss. She is clad now in nothing but lace and her slip, neither of which hide a great deal from her husband. Jean lets out a whine when Lucien’s thumbs toy with the skimpy band of lace around her hips. A groan, needy and lustful, escapes into her mouth, and she swallows it, greedily. She’ll take anything that her Lucien will give her, and the thought of her love for him, her desire, should scare her.

Jean only pulls him closer.

With an undignified squeal, Jean is suddenly in his arms, her legs dangling but for a moment, before she finds purchase around his hips.

They fit together so well, like this, in any way, really, but this is Jean’s favorite way.

Her core, covered only by the thin blue lace, aches in time with her pulse, and she gasps into his neck when he wrenches away from her mouth, kiss-swollen and his eyes bright. Lucien’s hardness is there, between her thighs, his heat running through her, and she hitches out a moan as he twitches against her.  

“Jean,” he breathes, and it’s as though he’s asking, as though it’s a question steeping in so much adoration and respect it makes her heart seize.

“Lucien,” she replies. Her fingers scrape through the greying hairs at his temple.

The counter is cool on her bare skin, and she has half a mind to scold him, but then he’s dropping to his knees with a hooded look up at her, through beautiful eyelashes, and _oh, her beautiful man, her work of art,_ she loves him.

His hands draw her slip up, pushing it up and up, and finally, off, until she is revealed to him, nearly bare now.

His eyes, clouding with a dark determination that sets her ablaze, fix on the whisper of lace between her legs, and she lets her knees fall open, watches him swallow words that he might’ve said.

His mouth is there and _oh,_ she gasps out a strangled moan, because his mouth seeks her out, needs her, his lips, wonderful and sweet, press to her and she revels in this because before this, she’d never known what it was to receive such an offering, built for her pleasure and hers alone, and her head falls to the cabinets behind her. Lucien retreats and she wants to sob out, to clutch him back to her, to make him love her in just the way she wants, but with a kiss pressed to her palm, she lets him lean back and if she presses her legs together at the way his eyes meet hers, at the way his deft fingers slide her heel off, the hollow _thunk_ of it against the floor somewhere behind him echoing in the silence, first one and then the other, though she wonders briefly if Lucien can hear her heartbeat knocking out a beat in the quiet.

This time his lips are scorching, and she all but forgets her mission to keep her legs pressed shut, and her knees fall open, even as he presses his open mouth against the silk of her soft inner thigh.

Lucien stays there for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut, his lips, closed now, pressing the sweetest kiss to the weave of her stretch marks, and Jean threads her nails through his short hair, tugging lightly.

He remembers himself and his mission, it seems, as he blinks away the sudden emotion that Jean can see had overcome him, and instead, his nose brushes against her in just the right way, in the _best_ way, and she shifts impatiently. His hands are warm at her hips, thumbs tracing out the grooves carved into her hips, just as though she’d been made from the finest of marble. His fingers curl around the lace at her hips and tug, and Jean, as though she would do anything else, presses into her hands, lifting so that he may discover her anew.

In a moment, her eyes are slammed shut, even as his breath flutters over her, and he finds her wet and wanting. His mouth meets her, finally, blessedly, and she wants to give thanks, but she can only find purchase in his hair, her fingers twisting and needy, and it might hurt later, but she’ll kiss away the pain, as she always has. For now, his hands join his tongue, as though he might map his way, though he knows this path ever so well. A stilted cry escapes her before her palm can press into her mouth, before her teeth can bite out a moan into her hand. He’s reached his goal, then, and he toys with her, fingers tracing through her need, tracing wet paths through damp curls, his mouth humming as he finds her clit, and she lets out a keen, high and breathy and she wants nothing more but to have him love her like this for the rest of their days.

His lips suckle at her, worrying her sensitive clit between petal soft, pink lips that have pressed to hers so many times it’d been a crime that she never even _wondered_ what else he might do with that mouth. Jean’s legs pull him close, her calf brushing the smooth fabric of his shirt, and she can feel him burning through it, and he lets out a wrecked groan. The sound sends a thrum of electricity crackling through her.

She’s there, so close, and his fingers find her hot and needy, tracing through her folds, finding her entrance and then, _oh, Lucien, oh, my dearest,_ he enters her, his palm steady on her thigh even as he fills her. This feeling, even four months on, even after so many kisses and so many bedsheets crumpled, will never grow old, she’s sure of it.

Stars and sparks blister out a path behind her eyelids as he stokes the heady beat of desire that threatens to pull her over, but she holds her breath, wants to make this last because her husband, her dearest husband, the man she had loved so fiercely she’d carve out her own heart to see smile, he is here, between her thighs, his palm leaving her thigh as he adjusts and—

Jean’s hips tighten, every part of her locked tight as Lucien teases out her crescendo, her own thick cries filling the air, the sound foreign to her, and Lucien grins, rakish and satisfied, even as his own eyes are glassy as he watches her. Jean feels everything all at once, the way Lucien’s fingers haven’t stopped moving yet, the way her back strains as every muscle tightens like string pulled taut, the way her mouth pants out heated breaths, even as her lungs are wrapped tight in the grip of soundless pleasure.

Lucien stands then, as she rides out her desire, and gathers her into his arms, his digits wet with her, even now, and she squirms against the emptiness she feels. Her head falls to his chest and she can hear his heart racing beneath the firm muscle, and wonders if his heart beat matches hers. She brushes her face against the heat of his shirt. His skin is set afire, and he trembles with lust for _her_ , as his lips meet her cheek in a chaste mockery of their earlier greeting.

Jean pulls him closer, and the feel of him near her, pressing into her once more, from belly to beard, is nearly too much and not enough all at once, but she’s greedy and wants him close, wants him always.

He sighs out a shuddering breath as Jean toys with his belt, her nails tracing absent patterns on the buckle as she notes his desire for her. His erection strains against his trousers, so neatly pressed and hemmed to fit perfectly, but she runs a finger across the evidence of his need for her, and he’s warm, firm, even beneath his trousers and shorts and she swallows thickly because she needs him suddenly, again, and it should be embarrassing, but then his forehead drops to her collarbone, and he grunts against her.

Her fingers make fast work of the rest of his buttons, and then, he’s standing in his undershirt, his broad shoulders suntanned and freckling from their months abroad, and Jean wants nothing more than to map out the paths of his sunkissed skin with tongue and teeth, but instead she busies herself with his belt.

The leather falls open easily, as does the fly of his trousers, and there he is, cock heavy and straining against his shorts, and it’s all for her, and she gasps.

“For me?” she teases, a glint in her eye at the way his eyes blink out a morse of _havemehavemehaveme._

Jean can’t help the way her fingers toy with the band of his shorts, excitement nearly overtaking her at the thought that all of this, his drenched fingers, his mouth, sweet and smelling of her, his proud cock, is all for her. She is impatient, though, and she’s never been quite good enough at waiting, not when she wants something.

Jean reveals him, thick and proud, to the cool air, and groans at the way his length weeps for her. His shorts slip down his thighs. She wants so much to relieve him, to take him in hand and love him until he spills over. Jean reaches out, running her fingers along the length of him, watching carefully as he nearly buckles, goes to his knees, and really, _she does love him on his knees_ , but she pulls him in close, cradling him against her breast, nipples hardening at the way his breath warms her chest.

“Jean.” It’s a single word, just her name, but he says it with such need, with such abandon, that she cannot do anything but appease him. She circles his girth, taking him into her hand, still and unmoving.

“Tell me, Lucien.” Jean commands, and she knows, even as his teeth find the flesh of her breast, then her pink nipples, even as his tongue traces out lines in a sorry attempt to distract her, a secret map only he can know, even as her nipples harden further, she is in control. She shifts her grip and he blisters with want, whimpering into the hollow between her small breasts. He makes to push into her hand, rutting uselessly, hips jumping forward in an effort to gain relief.

“Tell me what to do, tell me what you want.” Her lips are at his ear now, and he’s taken to suckling at a point where her neck and shoulder meet, and she marks him then with the red of her remaining lipstick, waxy and bright in the afternoon light. _Hers._

“Jeanie, I need you,” it’s broken, a sob and a plea all at once, and a thousand other things besides.

Jean pulls away, pushing him back, and his blue eyes are a muddle of desire and confusion. She draws him into a kiss, her tongue pressing into his mouth, tasting the both of them on his tongue, shivering with want.

“Then have me,” she murmurs into his mouth, meeting his impatient lips once more as he surges forward. 

When he sinks into her, fills her, finally, he lets out a strangled cry, short and sharp and lovely. His fingers knot in her curls and she clutches him so terribly close that she forgets what it ever meant to be a solitary person. Her nails bite into his skin, and he grunts as he finally sinks into her, his chest crushed to hers, every deep breath he takes mirrored by her own.

 _I love you_ , he mumbles into her ear, even as the two of them strike up a rhythm, hips meeting, a steady climb. Jean loves him more than anything; she tells him this, between a moan and a gasp, her voice high and unsteady as he pumps into her. When his hips falter, when his measured breaths become erratic huffs, she clutches him close, drawing his hand between them, to her clit, because she wants desperately, more than anything, perhaps, to reach the precipice with him.

Lucien comes, then, buried inside of Jean, his finger on her clit, and she follows at the feel of him. His beard has burned out a path along her neck, and she feels it as the heady thrill of their release wears off, warm and sated at the feel of him sagging against her. His bulk is heavy, but she’s not sure she’d be able to stand with him like this. She’s glad that she’s on the counter.

Jean and Lucien gather their clothes when they manage to stand upright, his hands at her hips as she hops from the counter, and if his eyes watch the way her breasts bounce at the motion, she says nothing.

Jean lets him go into the studio first, and admires the view.    

 

 


End file.
